


These Small Hours Still Remain

by Lilymoncat



Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: Eavesdropping, Gen, Morgan is Snarky, Morgan is done with this shit, Shotgun, and mind death, but done repeatedly, disjointed thinking, just because the original Morgan approved doesn't mean this one does, past consent does not imply present consent, to the same person, what technically amounts to mind rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilymoncat/pseuds/Lilymoncat
Summary: "And what of the third Dr. Yu?  The one with us now?"





	These Small Hours Still Remain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В эти предрассветные часы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037279) by [Gianeya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gianeya/pseuds/Gianeya)



> Title is from 'Little Wonders' by Rob Thomas.

“And what of the third Dr. Yu? The one with us now?”

He’s not supposed to be hearing this. This conversation between Mikhaila and Igwe is one that assumes he’s not there, no chance that he’s remotely in the area. He wouldn’t be, but he’s tired and bleeding and a technopath popping up literally in his face while he traversed G.U.T.S. looking for a corpse that has information he wants (not needs, but he has come to believe that there is no such thing as overkill) means he needs more shotgun shells. It is his office after all, and the only place in the lobby that has a fabricator. Yet here he is, lurking by the door listening to them, like some sort of spy.

Mikhaila said January was his attempt at a conscience. Igwe says he agreed to the whole nightmare. That he agreed to having his mind, his self ripped away from him again and again for reasons he can’t recall and no one will tell him. His fingers reach up, trailing along the curve of the pyschoscope. Alex said that he created it, was the primary mind behind its form and function. Such pride in his voice, pride in his younger brother. It’s gone, though. Part of a time that was a different him, one whose hopes and ambitions no longer exist. That him is gone.

There is nothing left, or so close to nothing that he cannot accurately say there is something. Mikhaila’s email asking him why he acted like he didn’t know her had brought an ache to his chest. The questions about her medical history a tinge of fear. When he’d heard her over the coms he’d felt relief she was alive, worry when she gasped repeatedly. Finding her seized up and so close to dying had brought a haze of panic that had lead to what logically were irrational actions. He’d bolted for the breach, been far too careless and gotten a few cystoids bounced off him while he searched her office for the boosters. Her fury over the coms (“You make me so mad sometimes Morgan!”) had brought a bittersweet feeling. But he cannot say that these emotions are truly the ghosts of what that him had felt, or just what he believes he should feel based on context.

He found the record, the hidden transcript (the fifth time. The fifth trial? Or later then that?) of another him, one who was angry and unstable. Playing catch up, months lost with the removal of his mods repeatedly, situations escalating. No, he doesn’t want to hear Alex tell him he agreed to this. No, no pills, no tranqs so they can drain him away again. Clearly it had failed, because he is not that frightened, furious man. Furious, yes. Frightened, no. He has no fear left to give, not even to the Nightmare. There will be no more hims, no more tranqs and waking up (Good morning Morgan, the date is March 15 2032, we’ve been lying to you for three years now) in a fake apartment with a fake repair woman and being sent to meaningless tests (levitate the boxes one at a time, levitate them all at once, set them on fire and nearly breach the containment and barbeque Bellamy because some soul deep part of him was so sick of seeing those boxes) that will just end with them ripping him out of his head…

January, December, there had to have been at least one other (June, July? Maybe November?) for them to decide that they needed to erase him daily. Reach in his skull, pluck the self out and reset back to the him who woke up on March 15 2032 and got his first neuromod, a young and eager to show the world how brilliant he was him. A him who hadn’t yet been betrayed by his colleges and his brother. Or maybe they just got tired of trying to bring him back to the him they knew, the one who agreed to this madness. Personality is drifting, not because of the mods though. Because they keep telling him that he agreed to this, that the chunks missing that are getting bigger and bigger are okay. That he knew what he was getting into.

Did he finally scream at them to stop it? Alex, Igwe, Bellamy. Did he tell them no more? To stop the experiment, stop killing different hims again and again? If he withdrew his consent, wouldn’t they have stopped? He already knows that answer, though. (“Alex, he’s allergic to failure.”) They had consent from that first him, (“You’re not yourself, Morgan.”) they’d use it as an excuse to keep going. Keep raping his mind (and it was spiritual rape for the Morgan that consented is long lost to them, he is all that remains), killing him only to repeat it the next day as if it never happened. 

No, no more, enough. He is done with this. The Typhon are loose, so is he. All Hell let out for holiday. Over two hundred dead, the largest amount of lives these things have been allowed to reap yet (at least one new variant because they’ve had no luck killing him with the old ones, and previously rare variants popping up like daisies, watered with blood…), escape sabotaged so that the survivors are trapped in a killing jar. This is the third slaughter, and if they are not destroyed there will be a fourth, a fifth, until one Typhon makes it to earth and then it will be over for humanity. He will not allow that, even if he has to kill everyone left alive here to prevent it.

He gathers himself, steps into the room and past them to the fabricator. He doesn’t even have to look at the list to know where what he wants is (Jingle bells, shot gun shells, Typhon after my ass. You can take my ‘consent’ Alex and shove it up your ass…). He drops the materials into the slots, breaking the uneasy silence.

“I’m not sure what number of Morgan Yu I am, but I’m not the third. But you are right Mika. I don’t approve. At all.”


End file.
